


The Ritual of Initiation

by MarigoldVance



Series: MarkHawk [1]
Category: Poldark (TV 2015), Return to Treasure Island (TV 1996)
Genre: (in fact i borrow heavily from the 'verse without actually following the plot), (like. at all.), Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter, Alternate Universe - Wizarding World, M/M, NOT Harry Potter Canon Compliant, Prompt Fill, WinterFRE2020, Wizarding Wars (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:20:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22672423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarigoldVance/pseuds/MarigoldVance
Summary: When Jim had last seen Ross Poldark there had been fire and death.
Relationships: Jim Hawkins/Ross Poldark
Series: MarkHawk [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1631020
Comments: 30
Kudos: 16
Collections: GatheringFiKi - Winter FRE 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> fill for the prompt: " _114\. Harry Potter AU_ "

Six days, he’d been there. Or so he suspected. Jim Hawkins had seen the sun rise six times through the tiny barred window high above the ground; he’d never been conscious to see the sun set. Perhaps he’d been there longer. Imprisoned, interrogated, shown no mercy when he refused to answer questions, refused to give anything away. One, a witch with raven hair like gnarled winter branches, had managed to strip his aura of its concealment charms and discover his allegiance. The screams that had followed were imprinted in the stone, echoing through the labyrinth below Nampara long after Jim had been returned, limp and broken, to the tight cell he shared with five others.

The cells, Jim was certain, hadn’t been there until after the Dark Lord had claimed the place for himself, disfigured it with his sick magic to better suit his needs. The whole place stank of singed hair and decay, the way magic does when it's corrupted.

The air above ground wasn’t as dank or suffocating, Jim noticed immediately as he was hauled, tripped and skidding over his own feet, through a narrow opening and into an elegantly decorated hallway carpeted in a deep blue. Frames lined the walls on either side, some empty, others charred under the charcoal starburst of a destructive spell. Jim imagined the absent portraits were off spying, gathering information where they could and bringing it back exaggerated for the Dark Lord’s ear. Those beneath the black were obliterated, Jim knew, the soul-fragments within scorched dead.

Jim was dragged forcibly between the brute strength of two wizards, their skins marred by the Dark Lord’s influence. One was pointy-eared with muttonchops and wiry dark grey brows, the deep lines on his hard face made it appear set in a permanent scowl. Jim could feel the hint of claws digging into the soft skin of his underarms, could feel the enhanced energy thrumming through the wizard’s aura. He also reeked of wet dog. A werewolf, no doubt.

The second, primly dressed, was less menacing despite the pustules in a rash on his right temple and his limbs eerily stretched too long. In fact, if he wasn’t escorting Jim to the Dark Lord’s feet, Jim would never assume the wizard capable of cruelty. Up close, being gripped by the wizard’s unforgiving hand, Jim could see something off in his mannerisms – the way his beady eyes twitched, and his thin mouth seemed constantly strained as if repressing a demented grin. He was _all wrong_.

Jim didn’t know what they called themselves, but they were assigned to watch him and his cellmates. There were other henchmen who patrolled the cellar-turned-prison, who would stop to speak with them – exchanged pleasantries and had a good chat about the best methods of cutting a person open, Jim snorted (not that he could hear; once the iron gate closed, a spell descended and muted all outside sound). If they stood guard all night, Jim didn’t know.

Two grand doors, delicately ornated in gold, opened with a gesture from the unassuming wizard and Jim was dragged through into a massive room that reminded Jim of a library in some Versaillian palace. The floor was gold veined black and white marble. The entire back wall was wengewood bookshelves, tightly packed with books that’s spines were ancient and well looked after. A table was set along the length of the shelves, two rows of tall-backed chairs tucked under it, its surface littered with various items – none which Jim could distinguish from a distance. His vision was spotty, the aftermath of another session of torture at the tips of splintered wands.

Curtains, dark blue velvet and intricately embroidered, were drawn across most of the wall on Jim’s right and to his left was an impressive fireplace, its proud mantle showcasing artifacts of the Dark Arts, both legal and not. The fire crackling within wasn’t exuding any warmth despite its healthy orange flames. Jim would lift a brow if he didn’t think it would hurt so much; he had no doubt the fire was real. Something was leaching its heat straight from the air.

His escorts marshaled him to the center of the room, jostled him until he was beside the carpet laid in front of the fireplace. One of the two kicked the back of Jim’s knees sharply, right and then left, releasing him to buckle onto the hard floor. Stinging judders erupted from the cartilage through his bones.

“ _Ah_!” Jim hissed. He barely caught himself on scraped palms before he could meet the ground with his broken nose, the hexed chains around his wrists clanking heavily when they hit the marble.

Given no chance to allow the pain to pass, Jim’s head was yanked back, putting him on display for those he sensed were watching him. There was movement ahead, the shadows coming alive with the rustle of fabric and the light tread of careful feet.

A quick flit of Jim’s eyes showed a group of witches and wizards now gathered and standing just on the edge of the fire’s glow. A handful were familiar; some his age, some obvious relations of those he’d gone to school with. Socialites of unscrupulous morals all sitting on fortunes and titles.

 _Lapdogs_ , Jim snarked.

An icy cold crept over the room then, heralding a dread that squeezed around Jim from the outside, sinking itself into his pores like the oppressive coil of a snake around its prey. His breath puffed, grey gasps in front of his face. All sound retreated through the seams of the windows and doors. The witches and wizards moved aside and bowed their heads in deference. Any split hair of hope Jim had remaining was plucked. He was being shown a glimpse of Hell, deafened by bloodrush and the wail of every bad memory Jim had (and, since the war began, there were many).

The Dark Lord approached from the crowded darkness; a twisted creature sewn together by all the horrible things that existed in the world. The power he commanded belied his skeletal shape. He looked killed and resurrected several times, decomposed and given new parts that didn’t fit, made him more creature than wizard. His face was ghastly, split in half by a barbed-wire thing Jim couldn’t bring himself to compare to a _smile_. It wasn’t expressed yet Jim understood that the Dark Lord was thrilled to have him – a high-ranking member of the Order – in his possession.

Jim’s face was unrecognizable, a mess of swellings and dried blood, and thus it came as no surprise when the Dark Lord asked, “Which one is this?” his voice slithering in oil over Jim’s scalp and down his back. The Dark Lord leaned forward and, the longer he examined Jim, the weaker and more desperate Jim felt.

The brille covering the Dark Lord’s lidless eyes clouded as he invaded the cusp of Jim’s mind, searching the catalogue of Jim’s days in captivity under Nampara. Suddenly, the Dark Lord snapped up, ugly smile even uglier, showing rows of small, pointed, lizardlike teeth. “Well!?” He rusted in demand to the room though he already had his answer.

“Hawkins, Master.” The werewolf behind Jim said, accent thick with his Eastern European roots. “We found him trying to free dragons.”

“Mm,” The Dark Lord looked pleased, almost impressed. Jim felt nauseous. A snap of spidery fingers and another figure appeared in a shock-whirl of black smoke. The Dark Lord posed his question before the smoke cleared, “Do you know this one?”

There was a pause. The voice that spoke next was a punch to Jim’s skull. “Yes.” The figure said and stepped into Jim’s periphery.

 _How? It wasn’t possible, it can’t be p_ —

“Then I leave him to you.”

Jim choked on breath like broken glass in his lungs, chest heaving and shattered fingers spasming, he tried to shift where he knelt, wanting to get a better look at the man who had appeared next to him, risen from beyond.

“Thank you, Master.” Ross Poldark said and sealed Jim’s fate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this has been 3.5 years (if not **longer** ) in the making. let the MarkHawk _**BEGIN**_! * _releases it into the world_ *


	2. Chapter 2

_5 years ago_

Jim listened carefully; ears trained for any noises that weren’t expected in the castle halls at that time of night. It was Tuesday, his day to make rounds on the fourth floor, and he was entirely alone aside from the portraits that’s personages kept calmly to themselves, some sipping tea or reading. The odd ghost appeared now and then, drifting through the ceiling and disappearing through the walls again, never stopping to more than nod their acknowledgement at Jim as he walked the length of the corridor toward the library.

Madam Pince, he knew, was long since retired to her chambers which made Jim all the more suspicious when he heard a sound – high and tight, stifled as if made in the back of the throat and sharply repressed – come through the library door. Jim held his wand in a loose grip at his side, hidden in the folds of his robes, and muttered a spell. He felt it take effect immediately as he stepped toward the door on soundless feet. Careful not to press against the door too forcefully, Jim put his ear to the wood and held his breath.

A minute passed and then, _there it is!_ , he heard it again; the same high-tight whimper, bitten off at the tongue before it could escape fully. Short hiccoughs of terror, like a child caught in a nightmare. The sound made Jim’s stomach lurch and the back of his neck prickle, the way they did when he thought of something sad. Whoever was responsible for the sound was obviously in some sort of distress.

Still. They shouldn’t be distressing in _the library_ at ten o’clock at night when everyone was supposed to be in bed.

Jim pushed away from the door and brought the tip of his wand to the lock. His lips formed the syllables without a voice behind them: _Silencio_ and _Alohomora_ , in quick succession. The lock released and the door pulled open easily, the usual heaving groan supressed by Jim’s magic when it dragged against the stone. Jim opened the door just enough to slip his body through and pull it closed after him.

He didn’t bother with a wand-lighting charm, able to see by the silvery light cast through the tall windows at the back. He took two steps forward, wand clasped close to his body, and paused to listen.

Again, a high-tight whimper, this time followed by a wet, choked thing that strained long and desperate at the end. Again, Jim's breath caught in his chest in sympathy.

Poor thing. Probably a First Year who'd managed to get themselves overlooked and forgotten when the library closed. Or maybe trying to retrieve a book they had no business glancing at without permission.

Jim relaxed his shoulders and walked normally, his theory releasing the coil of anticipation in him. He peeked down the rows of shelves on his way toward the Restricted Section but didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Two ghosts were conversing at a table over an open tome in the subvocal language of the netherworld that no human could hear until they were dead or dying. They ignored Jim and Jim ignored them in turn.

Finally, Jim made it to the rope separating the Restricted Section from the rest of the library. He reached out a tentative finger, let it hover just above the rope to feel the current of electrified energy coursing through it. The spell was still intact, then; no one had tried to break it. Jim raised a blond eyebrow in surprise.

If no one was in the Restricted Section, that meant he’d missed them in the rows.

This time, he circled around to the other side, along the wall of windows, and began his journey down the aisle with slower steps, standing at the mouths of the rows for more seconds so he could properly examine every table and chair. Despite his attention, Jim still didn’t find anyone apart from the two ghosts who were now arguing, jabbing and waving about, their expressions severe and black in the hollows of their faces. Jim shivered when he passed them, the temper in the air itching like a woolly sweater.

Once Jim reached the end, he heard the sound again, clearer and closer than before. He looked to his right and noticed, to his absolute shock, a _candle_ floating above a study desk that had been moved into the corner, adjacent to Madam Pince’s circulation desk. The candle was lit, emitting a corona of orange that fell in a small circumference around the desk like an upturned fishbowl.

Jim couldn’t believe it. He blinked and turned his head and, just as he thought, he saw no evidence of a lit candle at all. No dim glow in his periphery, no flickering shadows. But when he turned back to look, the candle was there, floating steadily above the desk, illuminating strongly.

Deciding to confront the situation, Jim marched over to the desk. However, when his toes touched the rim of the corona, he was suddenly overcome with a dizziness that dissipated in a whoosh as soon as he was completely within the light. He stumbled, righted himself, and almost stumbled again as his shock swelled in a pressure against his skull.

“What in the name—”

A boy sat at the desk, somehow invisible until Jim stepped in from the shadows. Books were opened in towers around his legs and ink stained his hands and, rather cutely, his nose. Strewn over the desk were feet of parchment, the writing on each dense and so small Jim wouldn’t have been able to read the script if he squinted through a magnifying glass.

The boy gasped, whirling around in his is seat so fast he almost tipped sideways, kicking a tower of books over in his haste.

“Now look here,” Jim began in his most authoritative, Head Boy tone, “You’re not allowed to be in the library after eight.”

The boy didn’t say anything, instead leveling Jim with an incredulous look that crinkled his eyes. Jim huffed and put his hands on his hips, leaning forward slightly in as imposing a manner as he could muster given that he was still reeling.

The boy was familiar, Jim realized, though Jim couldn’t recall his name.

“I was studying.” The boy said as if it _wasn’t_ past hours and he was perfectly within his rights to be where he was.

“And now you’re in trouble.” Jim said. “Come on, get your things, time to go.” Jim waved his hand at the mess on the desk and floor in a way that told the boy he’d better get a move on.

“I—Listen, I’m sorry, but I cannot just _leave_.” The boy insisted, his voice stressed, edging near a plea.

“You can and you will. Who’s your Head of House?”

The boy took his time answering Jim but when he did, he sounded downright pitiful, “Professor Flitwick.”

Jim bent over and gathered some of the books, closing them with pieces of parchment still inside, in the hopes of coaxing the boy into action, to no avail. The boy sat wringing his hands in his lap, shoulders tucked under his ears and body hunched inward, crumpled miserably in defeat. He was nibbling the skin on his lower lip and Jim saw that his eyes were bloodshot, either from exhaustion or dried tears of frustration, Jim couldn’t figure out, but it wouldn’t be a stretch to assume both. Even the copse of dark, springy curls on the boy’s head seemed to droop in despair.

Regardless, Jim had to admit that the boy was handsome, despite his overall disheveled appearance: Well groomed and blessed with sharp features that likely softened in the right company. He held the air of someone with an easy upbringing and it didn’t take a genius to deduce that the boy came from galleons; his uniform was primly kempt and tailored to fit nicely on his lean, wiry frame, which wasn’t something average parents could afford every year when their child was still growing into his or her limbs.

However, hairy forearms were visible beneath his rolled-up sleeves and were corded with muscle that suggested he did more than shake hands and snap his fingers. He was probably on his house Quidditch team which would explain why Jim recognized his face. 

The boy made that high-tight sound Jim had been following earlier, forcing Jim to snap back to the moment. 

“Right,” He said, clearing his throat, “Well, you understand that I’m going to have to report you?”

“Yes.” The boy sunk further into himself and released a hard breath through his nose. “Will I be expelled?”

“Cor, no!” Jim tried to force some cheerfulness into his tone, guilt bubbling up the longer he was confronted with the boy's misery. “Detention, definitely. And you’ll lose Ravenclaw some house points, but you won’t get expelled.”

That, apparently, didn’t help.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Jim crouched down when the boy made another high-tight noise and put a reassuring hand on the boy's shoulder, feeling the hard muscle tense under his touch, “It’s alright. We all get in trouble. Nothing that can’t be sorted out.”

The boy stared deeply into Jim’s eyes, calculating. Jim stared back. Clearly, the boy was under some sort of pressure with one or all of his classes, perhaps in other areas of his life as well, and while Jim had a job to do, he was beginning to feel a weird sense of obligation toward the boy.

Perhaps it should’ve been the first thing Jim asked but it didn’t matter, Jim was asking now, “What’re you doing here?”

“I—” The boy bit his lip and turned to the pile of parchment on the desk, “I’m failing Muggle Studies. I thought it would be easy,” He confessed on a sigh that indicated he’d been very, _very_ wrong. “I have to pass or … ”

Jim watched the boy shake his head as he trailed off, flustered as he listened to something in his own head that Jim wasn’t privy to.

“Got your parents on your back, eh?” Jim grinned, gently teasing. He considered the boy and decided quite abruptly, “I can help you, if you like?”

The boy flashed Jim a wide, uncertain gaze.

“What do you say?”

“Yes. Please.” Though he looked relieved, the boy’s body was still stiff with nerves.

Jim patted his shoulder and urged him to his feet with a hand at his elbow. Together, they collected the books Jim said they’d need, and shoved all the notes the boy had jotted down into the boy’s glossy leather satchel. Everything else they left for Madam Pince to sort out in the morning.

“Are you still going to tell Professor Flitwick?” The boy asked once he’d blown the candle out and tucked it away in a separate bag, mostly filled with spare quills and ink pots. Jim peeked a few packages of sweets as well and understood that the boy had been ready to spend the entire night in the library, agonizing over his assignment.

Jim had his own curiosity on his mind and chose to ignore the question. “Neat trick, with the candle.” He said lightly, “I’ve never seen that charm before.”

“No, you wouldn’t have.” The boy replied, shrugging a shoulder. If he were anyone else, Jim would suspect the boy would be accused of being arrogant, yet Jim could see that he was just being honest, if a bit too brusque. They were in the corridor, Jim in the process of locking the library, when the boy elaborated, “I taught myself how to do that when I returned home after First Year.”

“That’s impressive.”

“Thank you.”

Jim led them to the second floor and noticed the boy begin to panic.

“Wait, I can’t go back yet. I thought you were going to help?”

“I am,” Jim smiled. He rubbed a friendly hand between the boy’s shoulder blades to settle him and explained, “There’s a classroom around the corner that I’m convinced no one knows about. I found it on my first night doing rounds.” He gave the boy a soft nudge to encourage him to keep moving, “If we’re going to be up all night, I think it’d be best to do it somewhere Filch doesn’t even know about, don’t you?”

“With that logic, we could have stayed in the library.”

“What? Cloaked by your enchanted candle? If I could find you, what makes you think Filch couldn’t?”

The boy rolled his eyes. There was no hostility or prejudice when he stated quite bluntly, “Mr. Filch is a Squib.”

Jim raised an eyebrow. The boy scoffed.

“Squibs can’t detect magic.”

Jim rolled his hand, motioning for the boy to _go on_.

“I would’ve been entirely invisible to him. Only those with magic can see the candle’s light when they look directly at it.”

“And you came up with that charm all by yourself, at home, in First Year?”

“Yes.”

“Well, pardon me while I suspend my belief.” Jim made a grand gesture akin to a theatrical half-bow.

The boy replied without missing a beat, “By all means, go ahead.”

Jim stopped, the smile splitting his face turning goofy. A few steps ahead, the boy stopped and turned back to face Jim, biting back a cheeky grin. After a brief exchange of impressed eyebrows and broadening mouths, Jim resumed walking, bumping his shoulder against the boy’s as he passed.

“What’s your name, anyway?”

“Ross.” The boy said. “Ross Poldark.”

Fancy, Jim thought, as familiar with the name as anyone in the wizarding world.

They continued their journey to the secret classroom in silence, Jim’s footsteps still muffled by the spell he forgot to remove and Ross’ simply stealthy by his own concentration. Once the door was closed behind him, Jim ushered Ross to the makeshift study-nest he’d built himself over the weeks since the start of term.

There were old blankets stolen from the Slytherin common room, a wooden box stuffed with canned drinks his mother had sent as well as an abundance of sweets from Honeydukes, and a remarkable number of pillows that Jim had liberated from the Astronomy Tower.

Ross made himself at home without so much as being told. He plopped down on the blankets and removed his shoes, placed them neatly to the side. Then he deposited his robe over the back of the chair Jim used as a table and began pulling the parchments from his satchel.

“Thank you.” Ross said, apropos of nothing.

Jim followed Ross’ lead and removed his shoes and robe, going a step further and pulling his jumper over his head, surely leaving his hair in disarray. He lowered himself in front of Ross and cocked his head to the side. “For?”

“For helping me. I don’t believe any of the other prefects would have been nearly as understanding.”

“No,” Jim acknowledged, “They wouldn’t’ve. But, I’m not another prefect.”

Ross smiled shyly, “No you’re not.”

That’s when Jim remembered, “Oh! I never gave you my name, did I? I’m Jim.”

“I know.” Ross said as if it was obvious which left Jim very confused. “You’re—” Ross started then stopped, jaw twitching as he worked out what he wanted to say. He was turning a pale pink on the arches of his cheeks when he finally said through a stammer, “I like watching you play. Quidditch! You’re … really good. The best, in fact and I … _ahem_.” He bent his head to stare intently at his hands, picking at a cuticle.

Jim was as flabbergasted as he was flattered, “You watch me play?”

“Whenever we practice with Slytherin.” Ross admitted into his chest.

With his ego growing, Jim knee-walked over to Ross and twisted to fall onto his backside right next to him so they were pressed together from shoulder to hip. “You think I’m good?” He fished.

Ross caught on and raised his head, brows furrowed, “Yes. But I’m not going to waste time complimenting you all night.”

Jim groaned exaggeratedly and swayed back so he was propped up on his elbows, watching Ross retrieve whatever else he needed from his satchel and the second bag.

He still had ink on his nose.

“I’m ready when you are.” Ross declared when he was done, tipping a look at Jim from beneath his thick lashes. “Professor Burbage wants twelve inches on the evolution of Muggle transport in England. I think I got lost in the _in-gin-erring_ —”

“ _Engineering_.” Jim corrected offhanded, curling up to sit properly. “It’s alright. I’m an expert.”

He winked at Ross and practically melted when Ross sucked in a breath and ducked his head to hide the blush on his cheeks.

After awhile, Ross relaxed into Jim’s space as they flipped through one book after another. The night was long, punctuated by laughter and snark whenever they roamed off-topic. They studied until the first tendrils of drawn crept across the sky outside the dusty window and Jim had to put his foot down about getting some rest before the castle came to life for breakfast.

Jim only realized three days later, sprawled across his study-nest in a slight doze with Ross scribbling notes for Care of Magical Creatures at his side, that he never did tell Flitwick about the boy he found in the library.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> damn straight Jim was Head Boy. and a Slytherin. because i don't adhere to the idea that all the dark wizards came from Slytherin only and there were no good ones outside of Slughorn (it's also been a minute since i've read the books so i can't recall if there _was_ a Slytherin mentioned who actively fought against Voldemort).


End file.
